


Anchored to the Aftermath

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: Changing of the Guard [4]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angels, Angst, Backstory, Critters AU, Destiny, Grail Quest, Holy Grail, Prophecies, Supernatural Elements, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, it was supposed to be a shitpost, thanks Rowan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Even before the Earth chose him as her guardian, Bors was no stranger to guarding that which mattered much more than he ever could.Of course, success is never a guarantee no matter what devastation failure would bring. And the grail? The grail has caused nothing but trouble to those who have come before them.
Series: Changing of the Guard [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874362
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. I Grant You This Quest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MountainAshFae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainAshFae/gifts).



Bors was watching Gawain and Tristan try to see who could throw the most stones into a cup at the far end of the feast hall's longest table that wasn't their High King's table. Thus far, the score was tied at zero, but it was, if nothing else, fun to watch.

“I am thankful there are no feast coming up soon,” a voice of someone who Bors had not heard approach said with a heavy sigh, “I do not know if I would be more concerned if they embarrassed themselves in front of an allied King or of it caught on.”

“Sir,” Bors was on his feet and standing at-attention.

“Easy, soldier,” his King chuckled, “It's well into the night. You may rest.”

Bors was unsure he had ever rested in his life. Still, he sat back down.

“How long have they...” his King trailed off.

“A while,” Bors almost laughed, “The score is tied at zero.”

“At least none of them are archers,” his King shook his head. Bors couldn't tell if his King was disappointed or impressed or both.

It was a rare thing anymore, to see his King alone. After the _incident_ at Badon, though, his King's Champion seemed to make fewer and fewer experiences, especially late at night. 

Bors had been right next to the outer reaches of the storm of birds, had smelled the men he was meant to be fighting die as their flesh was ripped by their bones, hadn't been able to hear so much as a scream over the drone of birds.

And he'd run. He'd been so gripped with fear that he'd run away, left anyone who was caught in the horror to their own devices.

He hadn't felt worthy of his title or his closeness with his King since.

He'd promised himself that, should he ever be faced with something so impossible and terrifying again, he would not run or cower; he would face it head on, for his King and his brothers-in-arms. Until that day came, though, such a vow was no more than an idea, and he had no way to prove he would not give in to such cowardly instincts again.

A shout followed my more shouts pulled Bors from the internal spiral he'd let himself start slipping down.

“Did someone score?” his King sounded as surprised as he felt.

“I think someone stole the cup,” Bors squinted as he tried to make out who it was running away with the improvised game's score keeper.

His King laughed, a free thing that Bors did not understand in the wake of so many uncertain things.

–

As if the King's Champion turning the tide of bloodshed and suffering that was the battle on Badon Hill with the help of crows that came out of nowhere and became a storm was not strange enough, a boy who could barely be called a man who may have been the ghost of the childhood the King's Champion had never been allowed to have showed up at the castle gates one morning.

“My name is Galahad,” the boy announced, “I've come to fulfill my destiny.”

Bors wasn't sure he'd heard the lad right, but a quick scuffle of people and a loud, _“Seriously?”_ from Camelot's Seneschal assured Bors that he had, indeed, heard correctly. Bors had heard stories of how he'd slapped the girl who'd told the last boy who'd come to Camelot for any sort of destiny that he'd succeed.

Bors wondered, sometimes, if the Seneschal had had a point – the boy had tried for the fabled Grail and failed in a way that seemed to have hollowed his soul and left his body behind. Would he have gone, have wound up throwing away the rest of his life had the girl not shared whatever wisdom she'd had imparted to her?

Perhaps the answer would only make things worse for everyone, regardless of what it was.

His King had looked this new boy over like he might be an ally, might be a phantom, before nodding.

“Welcome, young Galahad,” his King said, “Come, Sir Kay will show you to a room and once you are settled, you may tell us what destiny it is you think.”

Someone snickered. Bors thought it might have been Sir Bedivere, the only man in a hundred days' journey who could have done such without another scuffle meant to restrain the Seneschal breaking out.

Bors lingered in the back of the growing crowd to take in the whispers, see what it was he could learn – about the boy and the general state of how the shadows that danced behind the court of Camelot were moving – before disappearing to find the other boy who found himself following in the footsteps of a father he never knew in the name of destiny.

–

Galahad looked even more like the King's Champion when they were seated at the same table – Sir Lancelot at their King's right hand and Sir Galahad on a seat which Bors had heard would only accept the Knight destined to save Camelot from sin.

Bors had often wondered if sin was something the old gods knew, wondered if Sir Lancelot's act of magic so terrifying it could only **be** magic of the old gods was a miracle in the name of the gods who left this world or a sin in the eyes of the god who'd been brought to their lands.

The quiet around the table was a heavy one, weighed down by fear and expectation. Bors swore some of the others had drugged themselves or drank too much to be sober before they made their way to whatever it was this Galahad would announce in the name of not fleeing the general state of things.

His King cleared his throat and the silence seemed to want to cut even that sound out of existence entirely such that it may continue to suffocate make those loyal to the Hing King suffer.

“Galahad,” his King said with more trepidation than Bors thought possible to live within the soul of a King, “has been deemed worthy of the quest which we all know he has come here to prepare for.”

“For Camelot,” Galahad's cadence was something too old for howevermany years he had amassed, “I wish to seek the Grail and return it here, such that those who succeed us may never fall, no matter the foe.”

There was something almost electric in the air, something alive that might take form and shake free all the notions this small group at the Round Table had of their humanity and mortality. 

“Do we need such an object?” someone – Bors thought is name may be akin to Agriculture but also did not think any mother could be so cruel – asked, “We already have Arthur, who was professed to be the one to unite the lands under one crown.”

“I will not live forever,” to hear his King said it seemed like treason in an impossible shape, “If something can assist those who wear the crown after me, it is a welcome thing.”

Bors blinked and the moment seemed to stretch out into an eternity which then snapped him back to his reality so quickly it was as if he'd landed in the wrong reality.

There was shouting, voices overlapping so much they created an air of indignation instead of words. Bors saw the first Grail Knight Camelot had welcomed slip off, the new Grail Knight hot on his trail as if it was the other Knight, not their High King, who Galahad really came here to talk to.

Bors, once again, decided to stay and see what he could filter from the chaos that seemed to be a part of Camelot's very foundation.

–

It was late – perhaps too late into the night – when Bors' resolution won out against the fears inherent in petitioning his King alone.

 _Perhaps it is a need for an excuse,_ Bors thought as he hesitated outside his King's chamber doors, _If he is unavailable, by morning the children who wear the mantle of Knight may already be gone and there will be no need for my offer._

He sighed, centered himself, and knocked three times.

His King's Champion – appearing as if sleep was not a thing he needed, or at least not a vice he had indulged in this night – stuck his head out the door. He looked as if he was ready to tell someone off, perhaps fight them, but before he could do any of that, he seemed to register he was looking at one of their King's most trusted Knights before any of that could get underway.

“Bors,” the Champion blinked a few times and then cleared his throat, “Sir Bors, to what do I owe this late visit?”

“I wish to go on a quest,” Bors let the words rush out before he could let his fears stop them.

“Well then,” the Champion cast a glance over his shoulder and paused before he said, “Come in.”

The door swung open to reveal their King seated on one of his couches, elbows on his knees and shoulders slumped. He perked up when he saw Bors, but the airs of a King had been left elsewhere. 

“A quest?” his King asked, “What quest has merits so deep they have you in my chambers so late I'd expect news of war at our borders?”

“I wish to go with young Sirs Percival and Galahad,” Bors had rehearsed his petition so many times it went beyond his understanding of numbers, but the words still felt clumsy, “I wish to act as their mentor and protector, such that they will be able to continue their training as they travel.”

His request was met with silence, his King, his King's Champion, even his Queen joining them from the shadows, all staring at him.

“Fetch the Seneschal,” his King said to the Champion.

Bors stood there trying not to fidget or shift his weight from foot to foot. He had interrupted something with a gravity that threatened to make whatever they'd put on hold collapse in on itself.

When the Champion returned with the Seneschal, the Champion seemed even more harried and Camelot's keeper seemed ready to snap someone's neck on principle.

“You wish to go with the children?” Sir Kay wasted no time, “To accompany them across lands we have no maps for, no stories of what these lands contain which we can verify as truths? And for what? What glory is it you hope to find with these boys?”

“You woke him up, didn't you?” his King asked the Champion.

Bors remembered his own son, truly just a boy, so daring and so eager to explore the world and angry that he would be confined to the farm that had been passed from father to son as long as anyone could remember. He remembered, too, the fire the invading army had used as skillfully as their swords and lances, how ill-prepared he had been to fight for his home, his family. How there were so few left alive, spared either by a careless soldier who did not check if the fallen were breathing.

Bors had crawled to the barn and collapsed, his legs too burned to stand on. And in the morning, when the sun's first light brought the promise of a gentle warmth, Bors wished he could stay cold forever. He dragged himself to what remained of his family's homestead, his wife and son both mutilated after they'd been burned past the point of survivability.

Bors wept until the man who lost all he had was dead, too, and dug shallow graves to bury the last remnants of the man he was alongside the last two people he could hold love for, burned legs so packed with dirt from being dragged along.

When he could finally stand again, he marched to Camelot, to the King whose life and legacy promised to hold the line against the people who'd emptied his soul of all the things that made him human.

He became the perfect soldier, then the perfect Knight.

And then these boys came along, so full of hope and daring and promise with no one to look after them in their adventures to become who and what the universe had promised them.

“Hope,” Bors answered, “They are a hope the world so sorely needs, and I wish to ensure they can live out their promises, both to Camelot and to themselves.”

The Seneschal raised one eyebrow, but his King was standing, the weight that had been on his shoulders shaken off and a sense of duty had taken its place.

His King looked between his Queen and his Champion, each of which nodded so slightly that Bors might have written it off as a tic or other idiosyncrasy had it only happened once.

“Sir Bors,” the Seneschal sighed, “I grant you leave and resources for this quest. Please accompany the children who have only the promises of prophets to guide them.”

Bors nodded.

He would not fail in this.


	2. Destiny's Prelude

Bors had not slept, had not even considered that sleep might have been wise before setting off on such a quest, and so when the dawn's first light rose over Camelot, he was already awake with his saddlebags packed and secured on a still-asleep horse. He'd been pacing his rooms, anxieties over what it was he did not know – could not possibly know – creating an unending source of energy that needed to be burned off immediately.

“Sir Bors?” a young voice came from the doorway, “Sir Lancelot says you are to accompany us.”

Bors turned around to see Galahad staring at him, the candles that hadn't burned out down the hall barely affording enough light to tell who it was speaking to him.

“Aye,” Bors nodded.

Even in the pale light, something about Galahad seemed to shift with the confirmation.

“Good,” Galahad nodded, “We plan on leaving after breakfast. Will you be ready to go?”

“Aye,” Bors wondered where the rest of his vocabulary went.

“Great,” Galahad's smile could be heard in his voice, “Meet at the stables after breakfast?”

“Stables after breakfast,” Bors echoed, “I'll be there.”

Galahad ran off, footfalls echoing in the otherwise empty hallway. A chuckle escaped Bors, the young Knight's quick retreat towards food at odds with the destiny he was chasing but in line with how _young_ he was despite what the fates demanded of him.

–

Bors watched as his King and those who wore the mantle of Knight in the light as well as the shackles of being their King's secret councilors came to bid the trio their farewells. There was a sense of fear that even the brightest smiles could not dampen, though, and Bors knew it was rooted in how badly the odds were stacked against them.

Bors wondered if there was a number that would make this quest a safe one. Likely not, he knew, but that did nothing to stop the wanderings of his mind into a place where the whole of Camelot moved as one to protect these boys whose paths would Camelot's future.

But no, Bors reminded himself: this undertaking was not one that amounted to a show of force. This was a quiet, sacred thing that only these boys, together, could achieve. He was to be their shadow until they needed him. And, as much as who he was today would not hesitate to strike down anyone who wished to be the one to bring these boys harm, the part of himself that still believed in the power of prayer and petitioning whatever gods might listen asked the universe he not be needed for even the span of a heartbeat while they were away from Camelot.

The boys both rode like they'd only recently been introduced to the concept of riding half-wild animals that swung between a valuable asset and wild things that had no need for things like listening to their master. Their backs were too straight to prevent their hips and upper legs from becoming useless within the week and their ankles were tense as if they had searched for a war horse's stirrup and, upon not finding one, opted to stay in formation anyways.

Bors realized he had a lot to teach them if they wanted to stay at their best the entire quest.

–

“Percival,” Galahad's direct address to the other Grail Knight was a tentative thing, “why is it you're so sure the castle at which you saw the Fisher King isn't going to help us find where the actual grail is kept?”

Bors hadn't heard either of them address the thing they were hunting since they'd left, and Galahad's question seemed to want to form a sort-of miasma in the otherwise crisp spring air.

Percival sighed and slouched forward for a moment before he seemed to realize what he'd done and sat upright again.

“The Fisher King's wound,” Percival sounded like he'd rather swallow the words than say them, “He said only that which the grail possessed could heal it, for that was what wounded him to begin with. But it...” the young Knight trailed off.

Bors made a quiet, grunting sound, the pain inflicted on Percival in the wasted lands so clearly coming to the surface, wounding him again as if it were happening all over again.

Galahad slowed his horse until the two of them were riding side-by side, so close their knees might touch if one horse swayed to avoid a rock or root. Galahad did not try to encourage Percival to keep talking, did not ask his question again, but simply rode alongside Percival in the resurgence of silence.

“He should have died,” Percival finally spoke again, “He bled and bled and bled and could not walk without being supported but he would not die no matter how much he seemed to want to.”

Bors could feel something flash through him like icewater, the implications of what the boy had seen, what he had heard removing the heat from his very soul.

“But the grail was not there?” Galahad's assessment seemed to be tangled with a question, “I thought...”

“I told them,” Percival kept himself separate from the rest of the Knights of Camelot, “that saw what the grail was capable of and was useless in the face of it. Whatever they inferred was their own thoughts and assumptions.”

“Ah,” Galahad said quietly, “That's...”

“I do not want your pity,” Percival said it like he wanted to spit the words rather than say them, “Sorry.”

“There is no need to be sorry,” Galahad recovered quickly, “Thank you. For sharing that with me.”

The boys rode side-by-side for a while, the silence neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Bors willed the heat to return to his sense of self, but the efforts were to no avail.

–

“One room,” Bors told the innkeeper, “Please.”

The innkeeper looked between them, eyes narrowed as if trying to find a reason he should throw them back into the darkness.

Hey were filthy, exhausted, and likely looked as if they may steal from whatever room they were given down to the furniture to sell the next town over.

“Fine,” the innkeeper relented, “but it's small.”

“It will do,” Bors was unsure if he was assuring the innkeeper or himself, “Is there room to have a warm bath drawn?”

Bors placed two coins on the table as quietly as he could; even above the constant noise that was an inn's tavern at night, he could feel a few curious folks turning their attention from traveling musicians and whores to his coins – more specifically, to where his other coins might be kept.

“Might be a tight fit,” the innkeeper's eyebrows seemed to want to crawl into his hairline, “but aye, I can have a warm bath drawn for you and your boys.”

When Galahad and Percival both made no sound to correct the man, Bors decided not to as well.

A woman who seemed old enough to be Bors' mother showed them to the room they'd be sharing for at least one night. It was small, but nowhere near as small as Bors had been expecting.

“Please don't mind him,” the woman kept her voice low as she looked down the hall as if checking to make sure no one was coming, “He can be a little rough with strangers.”

Bors stopped himself from asking if hosting strangers was not the point of an Inn. Instead, he told her: “No offense has been taken.”

That seemed to be the correct thing to say, for her smile was a genuine thing.

“I'll see to it that your bath is drawn soon,” she gave a small bow, “Will you three be taking dinner here or in the tavern?”

“Here,” Percival said, “please.”

“Of course,” the woman patter Bors' upper arm, “I'll see to your dinner, too.”

“Thank you,” Bors told her as she headed back the way they'd came.

“Good thinking,” Galahad said to Percival, “We get stolen from in the tavern, we lose everything.”

“I was mostly thinking about how little I wanted to be surrounded by that many strangers,” Percival admitted, “but I like that line of thinking better, so we can pretend that was exactly what I was thinking.”

Bors bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Galahad sat on the room's single bed with enough force that some of the breath in his lungs was forced out.

“I had almost forgotten what a bed felt like,” Galahad ran his hands over the thin blanket that covered the mattress, “Thank you, Bors.”

“All I did was suggest we room at an inn while the horse is still lame,” Bors deflected, “It will be crowded, but the stables will give it time to rest properly without having to constantly be on edge in the open woods.”

Truthfully, Bors did not know if the animal would recover, but it was worth a shot. The damned thing had tripped over a hole nobody had seen and the first horse had stepped over with no problem. It had made a panicked sound and nearly thrown Galahad off trying to navigate the sudden pain.

“Maybe,” Galahad was already in the process of removing his tunic and belt, “but it's still a good idea.”

“Yes,” Percival agreed, “I will admit I have missed sleeping indoor a little bit. I know sleeping outside and hunting for food is all part of being on a quest, but...”

“...but sometimes it's nice to have a little extra,” Galahad finished for him, “My first week at Camelot, I was sure I'd never get used to having access to food and shelter. But now,” Galahad sighed, a heavy thing in direct contract of his usual unwavering joy at all things, “Now I've gotten used to it.”

“Right, you weren't raised at court or anything,” Percival must have gotten that from Galahad privately, for this was the first Bors had heard of it, “I know you said you were raised in the woods, but I don't know to that extent.”

“I mean, my mother had a house and all,” Galahad seemed to debate flopping backwards onto the bed but thought better of it, “but the roof leaked so badly when it rained that it may as well not have been there, and the wind seemed to not recognize the house an as object and just passed through it like it did the rest of the woods.”

“At the...where I was raised,” Percival offered, “I had a bed and the roof was not a sieve, but the warm meals at Camelot have been something I did not realize would add such a richness to my life.”

Bors made a mental note to pick up as many spices as he could to better season the meals they cooked over fires, as well as to hunt more proactively. He had not considered that, while he spent most of his life always reaching for _comfortable_ and missing, his traveling companions may not be as accustomed to weeks upon weeks on the road.

“They really do,” Galahad said as he stretched, “There's always something different about food someone else cooked, even if it's made with all the same things.”

They bantered as Bors went about unpacking his saddlebags, separating the dirtiest of his clothes from the ones he could wear while the rest dried, taking inventory of the foodstuffs he still had. When the bath was fully drawn, the steam and the promise of warm water drew all three of them to the water's edges.

“So uh,” Percival looked between Bors and Galahad, “who goes first?”

“I am content just washing myself with one of the rags that's going to be at the bottom of the tub,” Bors said, “You two can work it out.”

“It's a fairly big tub,” Galahad appraised, “and we are both small.”

Percival looked like he might hesitate overly long or decline what Galahad was implying outright, but the promise of a warm soak won out. They climbed in slowly, mindful not to displace too much water into the wooden floors.

“I don't think I can handle this often,” Percival groaned, “I might never leave a place that offers hot water every night.”

“Be glad Camelot does not have a Roman bath,” Bors chuckled.

“I've heard of them,” Percival said, “but never seen one.”

“Each one's different,” Bors told them, “but they all have pools of water that can be drained and refilled. Some have room for a fire under them to heat the water, but enough room so that you do not wind up getting boiled alive so slowly you do not notice.”

“So you notice getting boiled alive quickly?” Percival asked.

“I'd imagine you'd get out if you were being boiled quickly,” Galahad chimed in, “I've heard that there are some water creatures that you have to cook alive because they rot so quickly after death. If you put them in when the water's cold, they'll just sit there until they're dead and cooked.”

“How?” Percival blinked a few times.

“Enough heat and your muscles stop working,” Bors said, “but if it happens all at once, your survival instincts kick in and try to get you to flee.”

“Oh,” Percival said quietly, “that makes sense.”

Bors gritted his teeth and hoped they would not ask why or how he knew this.

–

The rest of the evening passed with almost no notice. They were all cleaner than they had been when they'd arrived, their bellies full and their clothes scrubbed as much as they could be in the used bath water. While hanging them indoors to dry was not ideal, it was better than leaving them hung outside in a strange town that seemed to be full of travelers and other transient folk.

“I could sleep for days,” Percival said with a yawn, “Well, I don't actually know if I could, since I haven't tried, but...”

Galahad snickered, amused but with no malice.

“Sorry,” Percival's shoulders dropped.

“No, you're okay,” Galahad tried to assure him, “I know the feeling.”

Galahad crawled into the bed and seemed to wedge himself between the far end of the bed and the wall. Percival stared at the still half-empty bed for a few moments before he looked back to Bors.

“Go ahead,” Bors waved the unspoken question away, “Really.”

Percival's “Thanks,” was almost too quiet to be heard.

“Candle!” Galahad called without making a move to get up.

Bors extinguished the one still-burning candle and went about making himself a small nest on the floor. There was some shuffling and quiet half-words from the bed that stopped just before Bors found himself pelted in the stomach with a balled-up blanket.

“At least take the blanket,” Galahad told him, “We'll be plenty warm up here.”

“Thanks,” Bors meant it.

He was asleep before he finished smoothing out the blanket to cover himself.

–

It took the horse four days to seem like she could be ridden, each day passing much like the one before it. Every morning, they found themselves awake before the sun. Bors had offered to help the cooks their first morning while the boys checked the horses, and as such he found himself doing the heaviest of the lifting every morning so the cook and her two assistants could focus on, well, the cooking.

During the day, Bors helped them with their stances and learn how to move according to the bodies they had rather than the bodies their previous instructors had thought all men had.

“The trick,” Bors told them, “is to find what feels best and build around that.”

There was a backsliding of progress on the first day, both of them unlearning what had been drilled into them. Bors could tell they'd been welcomed into their King's inner circle for the destiny they had strung between them by forces they would never understand, and not for their battle prowess. Bors was almost sure he could name the lesser war-hungry Knight that had trained them – a rigid bastard who thought yelling and degradation were the only forces in the world that made for positive change.

Men trained under their King's best won battles not because they fought as one machine, rather because not only did they know how they battled, but how those around them battled as well. There was no single movement of violence, no mechanism of which they became when they held their weapons high, just sheer raw energy of a need to win, to protect what was theirs no matter the personal cost.

Bors hoped these boys never had to know what that felt like, never had to pay the steep levies such a fight incurred on the soul.

When the sun had set, they would go back inside and take their suppers in their room before they passed out more than they let sleep take them over.

Some time after that, though, Bors would wake up – still exhausted but nevertheless awake. And every night, soft whispers from the boys in the bed would reach him. They spoke to each other about fear, about destiny, about how they were unsure they would recognize the Grail even if it managed to speak and tell them they'd reached the end of their journeys.

They would speak of family, of how Percival never knew his father and wished his mother had let him know the men his father found worth sacrificing himself for. Galahad told Percival he knew Sir Lancelot was his father – his mother had told him time and time again when she thought he was too young to understand what such things meant. Galahad could not, apparently, so much as look in a reflecting glass anymore without seeing a distorted image of his father rather than his own face. 

They had dreams before they had destinies, Bors came to learn, but they had never been allowed to be children. They were raised as tools of people who thought they knew better than the universe, and wasn't that just the very foundation Camelot had built itself on.

–

They may not have been men in the way boys shifted into such creatures through virtue of their merits, but nor were they quite boys – too world-wary before they were even able to leave home, their souls burdened and their heads already filled with notions of their only worth being that which they could sacrifice for an idea that would outlive them.

When they were back on their journey, the small detour for the sake of one horse seeming to have stretched on much longer than it had any right to. It was all he had learned, Bors supposed, about his charges and how destiny and the pressure others put onto others through their actions and reactions, that caused his retrospective sense of time to stretch out to make the knowledge seem like it could be taken in, absorbed almost, and understood.

Each town they came to seemed to chip away at everyone's drive to stay on the road, to ride until they needed to stop and start again before the sun showed himself. A warm meal they did not have to prepare, bed, perhaps even warm bathwater, they all were the landlocked equivalent of the siren's song.

And yet, at each inn there was only ever one room open, and it was only the smallest one, a single bed and a threadbare blanket.

“I wonder what's going on,” Percival said through a mouthful of supper one night some five months after they'd left Camelot, “It seems odd that it's the same situation no matter how empty or full the town seems.”

Bors had thought the same thing, but had avoided speaking of it. There was something forbidden to the notion, something they were not to know about this quest that had been orchestrated by something they dared not look to directly. Be it the elder gods the people from the north brought with them or the new God the Romans left behind or perhaps even the gods he abandoned in the wake of the loss he knew he would never recover from, their knowledge was not for him.

“Probably,” Galahad seemed unbothered, “It feels like we're going in the right direction, though.”

“Oh?” Bors could not stop the question.

“Well,” Galahad said as he bit off another chunk of bread, “it's like following a string. If the string changes, you've picked up a wrong lede, but if it's all the same no matter where you go, you're on the right path.”

Percival and Bors stared at Galahad and blinked a few times.

“Was it the fact I had food in my mouth or the words I said?” Galahad asked.

“Both,” Bors answered honestly, “Explain it like I'm a child.”

Galahad laughed but quickly realized Bors was being serious.

“Uh,” Galahad grabbed his bread but started tearing off small pieces and dropping them in his soup instead of taking another bite, “Like, if it's all the same, it's like we're being given hints that we're going the right way. Like, God gave us something to look for and we find it again and again and again.”

“Makes sense,” Percival agreed, “What do you think, Bors?”

Bors fought his urge to flinch away, forced himself to remember that these were his charges speaking of interpreting the will of the Romans' God, not conquerors who used whatever divine was left in the world to defend their slaughters yet to come.

“I think,” Bors did not know what to say, but refused to settle for silence with his charges looking at him so expectantly, “that your destinies will find you no matter where we go.”

It's was not an answer. Bors knew this, yet he did not want to tell them the truth: there was no way to tell if this was the will of some being who held more power than any Emperor or King or simply mankind's desire for powers beyond what the circumstances of their birth had given them until someone was dead.

–

The boys had carried on most of the night about what destiny meant, and Bors did his best to block it out. It was not their fault Bors' only encounter with destiny had been so horrific. 

If Bors could help it, they would never know.

Later, much later, after they thought Bors had fallen asleep, they spoke in whispers about how they were terrified their destinies would not find them, or they would not find their destinies. They wished for anything but to be left alone in an abyss of a world with the promises of God stripped from their birthrights.

Bors wanted to weep for them, but instead bit his cheek and kept his breathing as even as possible such that they might not know he was privy to the darkest parts of their hearts. And oh, that all men could pass through this world with hearts no darker than the boys who were supposed to be sleeping across the room, there might be a fighting chance for future generations to find the peace the wars always promised to leave in their wake.

–

When they finally decided to stop for the night, there had been the smell of a cooking fire too strong to be for one person just starting to hit their noses. A town, they agreed, and perhaps one they could find a room and some effort-free food. Their hunt earlier today had been a failed one and their stores of bread and cheese were running too low for Bors' comfort.

In the morning, Bors informed his – _the_ – boys, they would restock their saddlebags before setting out again. They seemed pleased by this – it was not that they didn't have the ability to go to markets and restock on their own, but more that they _enjoyed_ Bors' company and wanted his approval before they purchased anything.

The streets were busy despite the darkness. _A festival, perhaps?_ Bors wondered. They dismounted almost as soon as they'd entered the town so they could lead their horses through the crowds. They found a stable for the horses first, and then made their way to the inn.

“A room,” Bors told the barkeeper, “please.”

“You're in luck,” the barkeeper laughed, “One left. Lots of travelers coming through as of late. Didn't know there was something going on that was making people of all walks of life go through this little place.”

“Strange,” Bors said before anything about how they three were the only ones they knew of seeking what they sought, “how it is the world finds a way of bringing itself to your doorstep.”

“You're telling me,” the barkeeper chuckled, “I'm afraid food will be extra, but ale's included.”

“It's alright,” Bors blinked a few times, “We'll take food, then head back to our room.”

“Find yourselves a place to sit,” the barkeeper pointed at the rest of the tavern part of the inn with his chin, “I'll make sure someone has some hot food out for you as soon as they can.”

Bors nodded in thanks and gestured for the boys to find a seat. There were none along the walls, so they found a table flanked by benches instead of stools that was – by some miracle – not already covered in old food from previous patrons.

“Here works,” Percival decided.

“In complete agreement,” Galahad sat down with more force than usual, “I've never seen such a busy town outside of...” he bit his lip to stop himself from talking.

“Outside of,” Percival tilted his head to the side but then his eyes went wide and he straightened himself out with a near-snapping force, “Right.”

For reasons he could not quiet understand, Bors felt there shared sense of fear around mentioning Camelot. Was it a fear of being recognized as Knights, of being pinned as worthwhile targets by would-be pickpockets? Something else words dared not touch?

Two people – a young woman and an even younger man – approached them holding plates of food and all thoughts of why this silent, shared fear had made itself at home with them gave pause. Bors could hear the plates as they hit the table even over the dull roar of conversation. A bowl of thick stew and a chunk of bread that looked as if its inside bits were still soft seemed to crowd each other. The smallest pie Bors had ever seen that could have contained anything rested on the side of everything.

“Here you are,” the young woman said, “Stew's fresh, everything's tender, bread's just made this morning, I can promise-” her cheerful run-down of what their plates contained stopped abruptly and her face fell, “Oh no,” she whispered.

“Mary, don't,” the younger boy grabbed her wrist and pulled.

“Three travelers,” the young woman seemed overtaken as if by trance or by spirit, “three travelers to find the castle, three enter, but only two who God called upon.”

“Mary,” the younger man hissed, “Mary, please, if they haven't heard it by now they don't need to hear it over dinner.”

Almost like a phantom, the barkeeper came, picked up the young woman, and carried her away. She stayed still and stiff, wordlessly repeating it over and over until she was out of sight. A few patrons had noticed and fell silent, staring at the trio.

“What -” Galahad started asking.

“Bread's fresh,” Bors interrupted, “I'm going to enjoy it before it gets any older.”

Bors hoped he had been clear: _We'll talk about this once we're back to the room._

–

Even though they had not spoken about it since, something had changed that night; Bors could feel the shift in the air no matter where they went. They were all more alert, more ready to turn to face every unexpected noise. Their horses, too, were faster even at a walk. The towns were getting more sparsely populated, and yet there was only ever one room available to them.

There was likely only one reason for this.

This is how it had to be.

Whatever prophecy had swept through the towns before them, the first innkeeper and the woman who'd made excuses as she'd shown them their room had to have heard it, the young woman and the younger man and the barkeeper had all heard it, countless others, likely, had to have heard it, had to wonder if the three travelers who seemed to leave as suddenly as they arrived were the ones who were _destined_ to...

...Bors had no desire to hear the rest of it. He never thought he'd feel empathy for the seneschal regarding the moment Camelot's keeper slapped the girl who'd told Percival of his greatness yet to come, yet here everyone was.

It was going to be a long trip yet to the grail castle.

–

“So uhm,” Percival was the first of them to break the uneasy silence that had kept the trip company all morning and into the afternoon, “Where are all the people?”

“Seems they've left,” Galahad looked around, “Hang on, I'm going to get a better look.”

“Galahad -” Bors tried to tell him to stay as low to the ground as possible, but the boy was already halfway up the nearest house wall before his name was out of Bors' mouth.

“You knew he could do that?” Percival asked.

“Call it a feeling,” Bors sighed as he kicked his horse forward to he could grab Galahad's horse by the reigns, “Galahad, anything?”

“Nope!” Galahad called back down, “Not so much as a single bit of smoke from a cooking fire. There's a castle on the hill, though.”

Bors could feel the last of his constitution drop to the ground.

The boy's – who was he kidding – his boys' destinies were in sight.


	3. All Hope Abandon

They'd ridden through the town in silence, save for the occasional sounds of unease the horses kept making.

Bors couldn't blame the beasts, not really. To have a castle's lower town abandoned like this meant something was so deeply wrong anyone with sense would turn around.

Sense, however, was overridden by a sense of duty to these boys he'd come to think of as his own. He bit the inside of his lower lip hard – he could taste blood – in a bid to stop thinking about what it would be like if his son rode with them.

He realized neither Galahad or Percival could read. At lest, he hoped they couldn't read. If they were ignoring the hastily scrawled **All hope abandon ye who enter here** over more than half the doorways in what looked like a paint made of blood and charcoal, he'd worry more than he already was.

He'd bid to join them, to shield them as much as he could so they could be the hope the world needed so desperately. Was this his own divine missive, to leave _his boys_ to their destinies and return to Camelot and _wait_?

He decided no, it was not. And even if it was, there was no abandoning hope. Now now, not ever.

“Wonder what made everyone leave,” Percival said as they left the town and headed for the stretch of defensive land that was the hillside, “I mean, it didn't seem like a fire, and if it was a sickness they likely would have left their dead, right?”

“We didn't look in the houses,” Galahad pointed out, “But you're probably right about it not being a sickness. We would have heard warnings.”

“If the town's empty, then the castle has to be empty,” Percival glanced around him.

“We can hope,” Bors kept his eyes fixed ahead of him and his ears as open as possible, “But just in case, how easy will it be to grab your weapons?”

“Warhorn's on my hip,” Galahad patted it, “Sword's in easy reach but I'd be leaving the scabbard behind if I needed to draw it and run. Shield would be a loss. It's going to take time to get unfastened.”

“Opposite problem,” Percival frowned, “Shield's in easy reach and barely fastened on, sword's under the shield.”

“Why a warhorn?” Bors hadn't meant to change the subject so abruptly, “I've been meaning to ask about that.”

“I've never seen you do more than strap it to your hip,” Percival added.

“I,” Galahad paused and his cheeks seemed to flush, “I've always hoped that if faced with danger I'd have the courage to warn everyone else and hold the line until help arrived.”

“I have faith you will,” Bors told him, then looked around, “Let's tie the horses up back at the edges of the town.”

“What?” Galahad asked.

“Hill's too steep for them,” Bors couldn't shake the worry that threatened to grow into a panic, “If nothing else, to keep the supplies safe.”

“Fair,” Percival sighed and turned his horse back down the hill.

–

The walk uphill with their sword and shield was every bit of hell Bors had expected it to be. His legs burned and his old scars felt fresh again. He debated stopping to rest, but feared he might seem weak or worse – unable to protect them. Each step felt like fire, and he closed his eyes as he walked to shut out as much as he could. The hill was even steeper than he'd realized. He hadn't been able to put a foot flat on the ground since they'd started their ascent.

“Okay, break time,” Galahad either seemed to pick up on Bors' pain or was just as tired himself.

“Okay,” Percival seemed to flop down on his chest more than lie down, “yeah, thanks, I hate this hill.”

Bors went down to one knee, then pivoted as he sat so he was facing the bottom of the hill. It seemed like a better idea – he could catch himself if he started sliding of falling without having to throw his arms back blindly.

Galahad had been the one to suggest they take some food with them, and Bors was thankful. Some food was passed around – just enough to give them some more energy to continue uphill once they'd let their bodies rest a little more.

When they finally crested the hill, they were greeted by a castle that seemed to be following to ruins.

Galahad wept.

“It's here,” Galahad said through his tears, “What we seek is here.”

“I feel it, too,” Percival said so softly it was barely more than a whisper.

There may have been a moat, once, but all there was now was a large ditch filled with old bodies that were little more than bones and leather-like strips of flesh the scavengers had left behind before abandoning the place entirely.

“How do we get in?” Percival asked, “I mean, yes, there's a set of doors, but I'm assuming they open outwards, so we can't exactly push them open.”

“We could burn them down,” Galahad suggested.

“No,” Bors said too quickly, “We couldn't control the fire and we don't know what the inside is build from.”

“Ah, right,” Galahad deflated, “guess we're going to have to scale the wall.”

“We could at least try the door first,” Bors pinched the bridge of his nose.

Bors lead them this time, carefully through the moat to avoid disturbing the dead. There was something profane about the place, and it was not just the way the dead were abandoned.

The doors were cracked open so slightly, but it was enough for Bors to ran his shield into the crack and use it like a lever. The door hit the end of its hinges with a sounds that made Bors' bones quake.

“In?” Galahad suggested.

“Yep,” Percival was running. Galahad ran in behind him. Bors sighed and left his shield at the doorway to stop the door from closing all the way again in case it managed to swing back towards closed. He wasn't sure how well the hinges would allow for another opening like that, and he was not in a hurry to find out.

Despite it still being daylight outside, the castle was near as dark as night. Bors could feel the hall's greatness as if it were new – this was a place of Kings whose bloodlines went much further back in time than Camelot's. This was a place of people the gods themselves had chosen.

So why, then, had it been abandoned? 

“Whoa,” Percival breathed, “It's like the place is alive.”

“Why is it so sad?” Galahad walked towards the back of the hall to where the light died entirely.

Bors heard the arrow loosed with barely enough time to dive forward and take his boys to the ground for cover. The arrow barely made a sound as it sunk into the floor.

“Not empty,” Bors gritted out, “Up and RUN!”

His boys didn't argue.

In the darkness of the hallways they bumped around and hit more walls than they made successful turns.

Nevertheless, the shouts in an unfamiliar language and a dim light that suggested torches, plural, followed them.

“What's happening?” Percival asked, his voice strained and terrified.

“Probably keepers of the Grail,” Galahad sounded no less terrified, “What do we do?”

“They can't see us,” Bors realized, “If we can find a room or crevice to hide in, we can wait until they pass.”

“Okay, then what?” Galahad asked.

“Oh!” Percival realized, “They'll go to the Grail when they cannot find us.”

“Smart!” Galahad said almost too loudly, “Hand to the walls as we run and try every door?”

“Works for me,” Percival agreed.

It took entirely too long, in Bors' opinion, to even find a door and even longer to find one that opened.

“It's like a labyrinth,” Bors realized, “This isn't a normal castle at all.”

“I was starting to realize that,” Percival was winded.

“Shush,” Galahad hissed at both of them, “Labyrinth or weird castle or both, if they hear us this is for nothing.”

They sat in silence and waited for the sounds for shouts and footsteps to pass them by. When none did and Bors' lungs no longed felt like they were going to quit, he started fumbling around the room.

“What are you doing?” Galahad hissed.

“Seeing if there's a way out of here besides where we came in,” Bors said as quietly as he could, “No matter if they're waiting or split up or gone a separate way, going back out there is going to be a horrible idea.”

Percival and Galahad started feeling their way around the room as well. The walls seemed endless and unbroken save for one stone met another. Stone after stone after stone they made their way into the unknown, feet dragging such that they might not simply step off the end of the world without so much as blinking.

“There's something,” Galahad hissed, “Well, there's a _lack of something,_ but still.”

“You're going to need to use a few more words,” Percival informed him.

“It's,” Galahad paused and the silence was filled with the sound of lips smacking like they were trying to get rid of a particular unpleasant taste, “It's a trough filled with rancid tallow.”

“Put some on the tip of your sword,” Bors instructed, “and then hand your sword to me.”

Galahad did so without a word, though his unasked questions seemed to take up a physical presence.

Bors held Galahad's tallow-tipped sword as close to the wall as he could and then ran his sword down the rocks next to it. A few sparks jumped but none of them landed, so Bors struck the wall again, then again and again until Galahad's sword lit up.

Bors dipped the fire into the trough of rancid tallow and the fire spread down the wall in a line – just enough light to guide them but not enough to blind them.

They followed it, slowly, the fire not spreading nearly as quickly as Bors had expected, traversing the hallway – definitely not a room – until it lead them to a drop-down into an open room illuminated by the moon and stars. The drop wouldn't kill them – it wouldn't even break their bones if they could land correctly – but it needed to be taken carefully if the walls below them could not be scaled.

The walls were higher than anything Bors had seen, as if they were in a roofless tower. There were archers' roosts scattered throughout as if the keepers of the castle had a threat to contain from within.

Bors followed the walls down to the ground, and the gasp that escaped him nearly startled the boys off the edge of the hallway.

“It's an angel,” Percival breathed, “But why...how..?”

Its wings were blacker than the night sky and its skin seemed to be made of wax. It was chained, defeated, a prisoner of this castle of nightmares. It lay sprawled on the rough stones.

Perhaps it was dead, Bors thought, and they were too late. His boys' destinies were stolen by men who tortured angels.

“We have to free him,” Galahad was already climbing down the wall.

“Galahad, wait,” Bors hissed as he tried to scan the roosts for anyone who might have been waiting for them, “Galahad, there are -”

A cry of pain and a thump as Galahad fell the rest of the way down. An broken arrow lay near him, the rest of it presumably in his back.

In the center of the floor, the angel stirred. 

“Galahad!” Percival cried, “Galahad, no!”

Bors reached out to try to stop Percival from jumping down, but he was too slow. Percival landed without any crunching sounds, but as he rolled Galahad onto his stomach Galahad made a horrible sound and Percival paused.

The angel's head was up, watching Bors' boys, curious. Bors dared to look around the courtyard and found more bodies like the ones in the moats, but with more skin left.

Even scavengers did not dare come here.

Bors realized he could not jump down without either landing on his boys or ruining his already-pained legs. For the first time, he cursed his resolution to not let what happened to him, how his past had disfigured him, stop him from becoming a Knight. A protector.

Once again, in the moment of crisis, he was helpless.

An arrow struck Percival in the neck.

Bors made a sound he had made once before, louder this time, its echo seeming to shake the walls as he descended the wall with no regard to his own safety. He was fairly sure he was no longer screaming, but he could hear the echoes like it was a hundred screams, town fresh from throats learning what it was to feel fear, to feel pain.

When he was close enough to the ground, he let himself fall the rest of the way and tucked and rolled to just shy of where his boys laid.

He checked them over. Percival showed no signs of life, but Galahad's breaths were coming in short, wet gasps. He felt tears stinking his eyes, burning his cheeks. He held them both to his chest.

“Please,” Galahad managed, “tell Sir Lancelot I knew.”

A sob escaped Bors, so heavy and broken it threatened to crack his ribs. He clung to his boys and sobbed like he was losing his son all over again as life left Galahad.

Lost in his grief, he did not sense the angel rising from its long-held defeat, did not realize there was an ancient magic being slung at the archers, did not notice there were bodies falling into the courtyard all around him.

Only when he was done sobbing, when there was no more his body could give to grief, did he look up.

The first hints of dawn's light filtered down to him.

Only he and the angel lived.

“You're the grail,” Bors accused, “You're what they were sent to find.”

“I've been called that,” the angel's voice seemed to be in Bors' head instead of a noise he registered as words, “among other things. My name, however, is Sammael.”

“They could have done so much more,” Bors hadn't let go of his boys, “They did not need to die like this.” He refused to use the angel's name. He would give it no more power than he had already.

“Ah, but they did,” the angel seemed pleased, “You see, there is no army in the world interested in a holy object defended by thralls indentured to a mad King who passed what would be lifetimes ago for those who know death, and no man strong enough to kill so many without falling himself. Nor has there been any power to harness from already-these dead men who know nothing of duty or honor or thought.”

Bors narrowed his eyes and tried to sift through what the words could possibly mean.

“Your grief, however,” the angel continued, “Your grief was easy to channel into a weapon.”

Bors let out another yell, this one of fury.

“Damned you,” he spat, “Damned you and any of your kind who care so little for each other they let countless men _die_ instead of rescuing themselves!”

“You think they would not have rescued me if they could?” there was an anger there now, something too human to be divine but too divine to not make Bors feel as if he might boil from the inside out, “You think they did not try only to have these metal chains burn away their magic, too?”

Bors said nothing for a long time, determined not to ask the angel to release him from the pain inflicted by his accusation. The angel, too, simply stayed still as if waiting for Bors to move.

“If,” Bors finally said when the sun was high in the sky, “if I free you, will you never return to this world.”

“I never wanted to be here in the first place,” the angel snarled.

Bors took it as a promise and started using the edges of his shield to wear at the metal chains.

“Once the chains are broken,” Bors told the angel, “I'll need to find something finer to cut the cuffs from your wrists and ankles.”

“You won't hurt me,” the angel told him.

“The scars tell me otherwise,” Bors challenged, “ You're...more human than I expected.”

“I should not be,” the angel angered again.

“Magic?” Bors guessed. He wasn't sure why he was trying to hold a conversation with this monster that needed his boys dead to secure its own freedom.

“These chains are of your earth,” the angel snapped, “they block magic and slowly steal the life from those they chain.”

“These in particular, or...” Bors almost asked _or any chains made of metal from this place I call home_.

“The second one,” the angel made it clear he could read Bors' mind.

“Why you?” Bors asked, “I cannot imagine whoever reanimated hundreds of dead men to guard an angel would have done it over any angel.”

“They say I am to herald the end of times,” the angel almost seemed to be laughing, “This King, he figured if he could keep me in chains, the world would never end, as if the absence of a harbinger stops what will come anyways.”

Bors did his best to empty his mind as he continued working. The angel was chained in five places – ankles, wrists, and neck. Once each of the chains were broken, Bors told the angel to wait before they went in search of something to remove the cuffs.

Bors returned to his boys and knelt down.

“I cannot return them to life,” the angel informed him.

“I know,” Bors wasn't sure how, but he did, “I just. Just one more moment with them.”

The angel gathered the lengths of chain still affixed to him and waited as Bors gave his boys the only prayer he knew for a safe transition to the afterlife. He then took Percival's shield and laid his own now near-broken shield over Percival's chest. He took Galahad's warhorn and laid his boys' swords next to them.

“Know that I loved you,” Bors pleaded, “and that I am so, so sorry.”

–

Winding their way out of the castle, Bors had to dispatch a few of the thralls. Closer and in the light, he could see they weren't quite human. Their eyes seemed unfixed and unseeing, their skin was dull and the wrong color where it poked out of their armor and clothing.

He wondered if this was where the town's occupants went.

Out of the castle seemed tame now, if not macabre. There were the bones of people like his boys, called by the unseen to free an angel whose own kin could not. And, like his boys, they'd been struck down by those already dead.

Did the mad King keep making thralls of unwitting would-be heroes until his own death? Why did this angel become known as a Grail? Bors had countless questions, but he knew the angel could hear him and decided to let the angel decide if there was to be any more consensual conversation.

They eventually found some old smith's tools in one of the abandoned houses in the town at the foot of the hill. Bors started clipping away at the cuffs as carefully as he could. If the angel bled, he might lose his mind.

–

Finally freed of his chains, the angel became a sphere of light so bright Bors thought he may go blind.

“Perhaps there are good people in your world,” the angel's voice rattled him once more before it disappeared, plunging Bors' world into darkness once more.

–

Bors tied Percival and Galahad's horses to his own, knots he could easily undo if they frightened and tried to run in different directions. He let his horse set the pace as he angled the small herd in the general direction they'd come from.

For weeks, he avoided towns in case someone recognized them and asked where his boys were. During this time, he promised himself that should anything supernatural in body and spirit ever be near him again, he would not show it the best of humanity, would not give it a chance to take more lives for its own gain.

The first snow came and he feared for the horses, so he found the nearest town and asked for a room at the inn.

“We have a few to choose from,” the innkeeper told him, “You can have your choice.”

“Any room will do,” the whole conversation felt wrong.

“Alright,” the innkeeper nodded, “If you're looking for food go ahead and take a seat in the tavern across the way. When you're done I'll show you to your room.”

Bors was not hungry, but he could not remember the last time he'd eaten so he followed the innkeeper's instructions. As he ate supper he found the food tasted of ash. He knew, though, that this was not a fault of the cook or food. The encounter with the angel had _done something_ to him, and a part of whatever was done robbed him of his ability to taste food. He'd thought it was only the food they'd bought together tainted by his grief, but that notion was clearly incorrect.

He thanked the barkeeper for the food and ale and returned to the inn. The innkeeper seemed to sense something was amiss, so he lead Bors to a room without any attempts at conversation.

The innkeeper opened a door and gestured for Bors to go in it. He then handled Bors a small handful of tallow candles and said a quick good-night.

Bors' hands shook as he lit one of the candles. He meant to use it to glance around the room long enough to memorize where everything was and then blow it out. He'd burned enough tallow for one lifetime.

Against the far wall, two nearly made beds waited for their guests.

Bors blew out the candle and fell asleep on the floor.


End file.
